Pancakes and Mangled waffles

Pancakes and Mangled Waffles

When I was little, my Mother had a lung disease called tuberculosis. For those of you who that have relatives that spent time in a facility in the thirties, forties, and early fifties, you know that bed rest was, in that era, the only cure. For Mother, it meant twenty-three months in bed at the tri-county owned sanatorium called Oakland Park Road.

The wrong diagnosis lead her to Arizona to lay in the sun and take hot baths. While I played in the sand outside the motel, and Daddy brought food to us to eat, Mother stayed in bed and slept. Obviously something was wrong; we left for the Mayo Clinic after a few days. Daddy dropped her off at the hospital, took me to his aunt Karina's house in St. Paul, went back to Rochester and got Mother, took her to Thief River Falls, then came back to St. Paul and picked me up and we went home.

My grandparents were hired to take care of the family. They rented their house in the 1200 block of north Knight Avenue out to Sam Jarshaw and his bride and moved in with us.

I too was affected and curled up and slept in the sun on the floor in the living room. I did not eat. My grandfather said I was all hair and eyeballs. I was 44 inches tall and weighed the same.
My grandparents had a plan. Grandpa and I would agree to have a bet to see who could eat the most pancakes. Mine were the size of a half dollar and his were four inches. When I was finished, I would lean over and sleep on his shoulder. After months and mouthfuls of pancakes, I won. I also decided about the same time I did not like pancakes.

Rachel’s blog, dated December 29 is called Mangled Waffles, Anyone?
We are related! There were a few things I thought about last night as we chipped away at the waffle batter stuck to the iron.

What is it with us, anyway? The first waffle iron had to be seasoned, I understand why that was a problem. But THIS iron has a finish on it. I poured the batter in and when I went to open it, half was stuck to the top grid and the other to the bottom. The reason that happened was because I tried to open it too early. Well, that was a bust. Tom said we could eat the stuff we scraped loose. I pulled out the electric frying pan and made pancakes with waffle batter.

And that is when I felt the presence of my grandfather sitting next to me. The only thing missing was the tin Log Cabin Syrup container and the stool I sat on. And, I still am not a pancake fan.

Do you remember the syrup in the cans named after President Lincoln?

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